Wednesday, 2 December 2009

Haiku and drawings from 'On The Journey Home'

on the journey home
thunder, sitting in silence
letting dust settle

village graveyard--full
of daisies,dandelion clocks
and dying light

hole for the tree
my hand
stirring her ashes

in goal
his mother dodges
away from the ball

tending the path
to the gate,beyond
ruts heading downhill

sea side graveyard
still enough space
to store a boat

bookshop,filed under
motorbikes a volume
on cycladic art

playground empty
but for wind
playing with sparrows

winter's afternoon
making love
the boiler comes on

an urgent call
to wash my hands
of the garden

waiting for news
with me,on the settee
her drop of blood

to travel silent
as the morning hare
on the gravel road

between each
foxglove,a gap
in buzzing

dawn wind
air jangles
with birds

his funeral suit
in a turn up
the wardrobe key

on fennel
gathering mist,shells
of transparent snails

porch bell silent
its clanger gently
strikes the wind

white plum blossom feels
the pulse of the moon


Tuesday, 1 December 2009

From haiku published in BLITHE SPIRIT (British Haiku Society)

overhead whistling
quietly the gap
in a rook's wing

until the apple
blossoms the lichen
on next door's roof

in its grave
gently stroking the hare's fur
november winds

city heat
from the grassed reservoir
a twister of hay

paper bark birches
she lets each page
flutter down

dusk freezes
by the old bridge
caught in weeds
the waning moon

overnight snow
circling the house
each pause of the hare

evening mist
gunshots echo
through dead elms

full moon
barn owl's face
every quarter

beach hut washed
away by the cliff
china neatly stacked

snow outside
drifting inside
fragrance of jonquils

back of the drawer
wild barley seeds
in last summer's socks


Grand Prix Haibun for the First International Kikakuza Haibun Contest. haibun FOR ROSE

A small procession winds from the walled garden, past high laurel hedges towards the woodland that she loved. I only knew her for a short while. We usually met at private views, occasionally in the shops of the small coastal town, or, once or twice, as two heads bobbing in the sea.

coppiced woods
filtered sun alive
with bees

After recuperating from a minor breakdown, she’d asked me to help fix up her small studio in the town. We laughed a lot, improvised curtains to cover up junk, sloshed paint about, drank wine. Facets of her hidden personality emerged. A slightly wicked sense of humour, compassion, lightness, a love of colour. Unwanted visitors arrived, slightly drunk, she handled them with kindness and love, gently ushering them on their way.

her ashes wind
in our direction

Her death was sudden and unexpected. We’d seen her just before on a country lane near our house, and stopped for a chat. A sunny day full of promise, two cars parked side by side, swallows shrilling overhead.

suspended in shade
each pin point of light
a hoverfly

Now, after the funeral, amongst the trees she loved, a few Friends holding hands. We stand silent but for the sound of birds, holding her gently, linking thoughts.

in hazel quivering
a flat web holds
a film of ash


Extracts from first book 'Choosing The Stone'

polka dot dress

moire patterns dance

across her breasts

soon as he died

the widow chopped down

all his trees

private view

old friends older

new work scrutinised

cold east wind

pigeons hedge hop

the penetration

solitary horse

his spring erection

patient stare


empty seat faces

the leafless lane

deep turquoise light

from a magpie's back

its quetzel flight

front garden privet

all the town's sparrows

having a riot

ripple's centre

a sucking



blue corydalis slowly

releases the night

post box

new air mail

robin droppings

red cherry leaves

wait for the next wind

her parting words